


The Only Thing We Have to Fear

by boho_writer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Epiphanies, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 21:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3870568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boho_writer/pseuds/boho_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set directly after “The Hounds of Baskerville.” John realizes what Sherlock said that night at the inn might have a deeper meaning than he originally believed…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Thing We Have to Fear

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Единственное, чего нам следует бояться](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13839228) by [petergirl10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/petergirl10/pseuds/petergirl10)



They barely made it onto the train back to London before Sherlock closed his eyes and fell asleep in the seat beside John, likely for the first time since before the Dartmoor fiasco.

John knew the detective’s phases by now, much like the moon Sherlock was wont to delete: first, elevating manic determination during cases resulting (85-90% of the time) in success; then a crash for a day or so (giving John time to catch his breath and blog); and finally regained energy to either direct on a new case or, in absence of mental stimulation, destroy the flat. Sitting on the train, the blasted hound behind them, the men had entered “phase two.”

John was pleased to get a minute’s rest after this last case. He stared out the window of the train, happy to be putting Baskerville and Dartmoor farther and farther behind them.

The whole idea of being drugged still bothered him, and the fact that Sherlock had (thought he had) done it was worse. The drug was intended to cause fear, to conjure it up from deep in the victim’s mind. Sherlock had been fascinated once he’d figured it out, and had talked the whole way to the train station about it.

“Brilliant, really,” he’d exclaimed. “Think of it, John: a drug that renders the victim powerless, because _they_ are the ones creating the terror. Everyone has something they are afraid of, and all you’d need is a bit of it to cause the hallucination and—”

“I _know_ , Sherlock,” John had interrupted pointedly. “I know the effects quite well, thank you.”

John knew he would forgive his friend but still…they might need to have a further talk about “appropriate boundaries” and “not using me as a test subject, you arsehole.” Friends didn’t drug each other. Or think they had drugged each other. That was the main lesson he needed Sherlock to personally take away from this case.

 _Friends_. John still had to remind himself from time to time that this was new territory for Sherlock. He had people he knew, and people he used for work, but John suspected he might be the man’s first actual friend. Though some days, he could understand why. Especially the other night, when Sherlock had snapped viciously, “I don’t have _friends_!”

With that memory came the same internal pang he had felt in the moment, and John shook his head to push it away. Sherlock hadn’t meant it. He’d said so later. He was just being defensive, and he was scared and not sure how to handle it, and anyway he’d been drugged—

He’d been drugged. He’d been drugged when he said that.

_Everyone has something they are afraid of, and all you’d need is a bit of it to cause the hallucination…_

_“I don’t have friends!”_

John closed his eyes and sighed deeply. There it was, then. What the drug had made Sherlock believe, if even for a night. He hadn’t said it to be hurtful, which John originally believed. He said it because that was the fear his mind created. That he couldn’t trust himself ( _the hound he did not believe in actually existed_ ) or anyone else ( _John was not his friend after all_ ).

That was his fear.

John glanced as his companion. The younger man was slumped in his seat, legs sprawled out in the aisle, head dipped down to his chest. John had an urge to wake him and reassure him, although he knew that if he had made the connection then sure Sherlock had as well. The next day in the cemetery, with an awkward apology, had proven that, if anything. Still, though, things needed to be said.

 _When we get to London, then_ , John promised himself.

* * *

With such pressing information on his mind, John worried he couldn’t think of anything else on the walk from the train station to Baker Street. Fortunately, as soon as the men stepped off the train, Sherlock’s mobile rang. John knew it was Mycroft immediately (Sherlock having changed his brother’s ringtone to “God Save the Queen”). Whatever the elder Holmes was calling about sounded innocuous, but Sherlock (having woken up in something of a mood) goaded his brother enough that the conversation descended quickly into an argument which lasted the whole of the walk. Sherlock was just hanging up (and muttering about what his brother could do to himself and when and with what) when John pushed open the door to 221B.

John dropped his bag by the stairs and headed into the kitchen, hoping there was something edible left. Sherlock moved to the desk and began sorting through files.

“You best write this one up soon as you can,” he called to John. “Much as it pains me to admit, your blog certainly brings in such…interesting clientele.”

John entered the sitting room and took a breath. This was the first moment they had had since leaving Dartmoor. The longer he waited, the more awkward it would be.

“Sherlock?” he asked. “Can I, ah, talk to you about something?”

“Tell me it’s a case,” Sherlock muttered, his eyes still on the files. “The few hours’ kip on the train cleared my mind enough to start back immediately, if not sooner.”

“No, ah…” John paused, suddenly grateful Sherlock still had his back turned. “I just wanted to…say something. About...what you said…the other night at the inn.”

Sherlock’s head cocked slightly, but he still didn’t turn around.

“What about it?” he asked, his voice quiet.

John scratched the back of his neck. This was more difficult than he’d thought, but it had to be said. “You said…that night, you said you didn’t have friends—”

“ _For which_ I already apologized.”

“No, no, mate, that’s not what I mean,” John argued, deciding to leave out that Sherlock actually had _not_ apologized properly. “It’s only…you said the drug caused a person to hallucinate their worst fear. And I just—I wanted to make sure you knew you _do_ have friends,” John pushed forward, lest he lose his nerve. “You’ve got me and Lestrade, and if the past few days didn’t prove that to you, I don’t know what will. And you’ve got Mrs. Hudson, too,” he added. “And Molly. And even Mycroft, though I know you don’t believe me. We’re all on your side, yeah? Nothing to fear about that, ever.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, didn’t move. He kept staring straight ahead, so John couldn’t tell what he was thinking (not that seeing his face would make it any clearer). He wasn’t chiding John for sentimentality, so there was that, but the silence was hard to read. John waited one moment more before concluding “I just wanted to make sure it was said. That’s all.” Then he picked his laptop up out of his chair, sat down, and began to write up the case.

Sherlock, meanwhile, stayed stock-still a while longer. John kept an eye on him, wondering if maybe he had retreated to his Mind Palace once the sentimentality began. Maybe he hadn’t heard John at all? Regardless, after a moment the younger man seemed to come back into himself, looking back at the files (though slower now, and quieter). John kept typing. The silence in the flat became more comfortable.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock lay down the files and turn towards him. “Tea?” he asked.

John looked up only briefly. “Mmm. Yeah, thanks.”

Sherlock strode towards the kitchen, and as he passed, his right hand reached out and patted John’s right shoulder twice. Just briefly, and by the time John had looked up, Sherlock was gone.

John smiled to himself. No, nothing to fear at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note: The title comes from the famous FDR quote “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” The plot was inspired by a theory about HoB on TVTropes. Initially, Sherlock’s meltdown in the inn (culminating in the “I don’t have friends!” remark) sounds like he is being defensive due to panic. And it makes sense: John keeps pressing him, Sherlock can’t handle the building fear, so he snaps and lashes out at the only person there (John). But the Troper argued that that statement was part of the hallucination: Sherlock’s worst fear was partially that he couldn’t trust his senses (he knew the Hound couldn’t be real, and yet he saw it), and partially that he had no friends. So he wasn’t saying it to hurt John: he said it because in that moment, he believed it. That theory made the scene much sadder than it already was, and I wanted to write something where John made the connection and see how they would have handled it after.
> 
> Also, I wanted to give a lead-up to RF, where Sherlock chooses his love for his friends over his life, more or less. And finally, the moment later on in SoT where Sherlock sort of mentally “checks out” when John tells him he is his best friend – the way John reacts to that seems like it’s happened before. So, I wanted to make a reference there as well.
> 
> I wrote this without re-watching HoB, so if anything’s off, please let me know. And feedback is always appreciated!


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